


The Haunting of a Prep School by a Most Unusual Demon

by FelixHaase



Category: Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King, School of Rock - Lloyd Webber/Slater/Fellowes
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Crossover, Gen, I just thought this was a cool idea, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, References to Canon, bad childhoods galore, but I'm an utter failure at tagging, don't do drugs kids, it's Beetlejuice what did you expect, nonsense is serious business people!, oh and there will probably be some gore, time to mess with your head
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23749099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelixHaase/pseuds/FelixHaase
Summary: The ghosts of Horace Green Prep School have finally had enough of Dewey Finn, and decide to hire a bio-exorcist to do the work for them. A certain demon by the name of Beetlejuice is only too happy to oblige. After all, it's been centuries since he's really been able to drive someone crazy...If only it were that simple.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after the events of both musicals (in about November), and I would recommend having at least a working knowledge of both. Not that I can force anyone to do anything, but... I have a feeling that most of you will be coming from the Beetlejuice side of things with little to no idea of what SoR is. I'm not judging. I'm just saying.

There are stories told in these halls, this ancient and hallowed school. Stories of ghosts; apparitions; mysterious shadows and voices that come from nowhere. Stories of those who died in this very place. The students whisper among themselves. They tell the story of the boy who froze to death, his skin cold and his lips blue, and how his face can still be seen in the windows of some of the classrooms. A student tells the story of when he heard a woman singing in the hallway behind him, only to turn around and find nothing there. 

The teachers listen and scoff, chiding the storytellers for having overactive imaginations, for lying. They say that ghosts do not exist, that science has proven it so, and that these stories are nothing but fiction and lies. But the students know better.

And so do the ghosts.

Sandra Hart, thirty years alive and thirty-two years dead, looked around the cramped, dark space and sighed. This was hardly how she wanted to be spending her Tuesday; stuck in the empty basement storage room of Horace Green Preparatory School, the only place where the ghosts could meet without fear of interruption by some breather. And why? Because her "colleagues" had called a meeting. What for, she didn't know, but about half an hour of oscillating between nervousness and boredom had thoroughly drained her interest. God, she could be doing just about anything else right now.

"Just typical of those old chauvinists," she muttered to herself, slouching back on the room's only piece of furniture, a battered old table. "Always keeping me out of the loop."

As though on cue, Hart felt the unnerving vibration that let her know someone was walking through a wall. In an instant, she was standing bolt upright, brushing dirt off of her spectral shoulder pads and doing her best to seem casual - a total failure, not as though it mattered.

A young boy emerged from the wall, dressed in a uniform which the school hadn't used since the 1930's. He was well groomed and his red hair was neatly combed, but the ghastly tint of blue to his skin belied his otherwise neat appearance. His name was Spencer MacNamara, and he was Horace Green's true ghost story. As far as Hart knew, he had indeed frozen to death, locked overnight in an unheated classroom. She hadn't asked to confirm, because it seemed rude, and MacNamara had never volunteered the information. Not that the boy - who was technically older than her, despite his youthful appearance - ever spoke at all, really. He constantly had his nose in one book or another, content simply to sit in the corner and be ignored. Hart would be shocked if he so much as looked up during the entire mystery meeting. She leaned back again, waiting for what felt like another eternity.

And then finally, they arrived. The last two ghosts of the school, rounding out the bizarre quartet.

They walked into the room together, the large, powerful man and the quiet presence behind his shoulder. 

Hart wasn't surprised. The two men hung to each other in a manner that reminded her of a master and servant, though she could never be sure which was which. The one, whose name was Paul Forrest, had in life been a renowned lawyer, and lost none of that gravitas in death. He was tall, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, and immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit, and he had an air about him which instantly commanded the attention of any given room. The other was old and gray, dressed all in black and clutching a silver-headed cane as though he was deathly afraid of losing it, but Hart had for a while already suspected that the old man still had some steel in him, buried deep below the surface. If only...

"SO!" Forrest announced, clasping his hands together with a loud smack, and Hart's focus was broken with a lurch at the sudden sound. "I'm sure you are all wondering why we called this meeting."

As expected, MacNamara made no attempt to get involved in the conversation, and so it was left to Hart to answer the lawyer.

"Yes, I am wondering. Please, enlighten me."

Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, but Forrest didn't take her bait. Instead, he started talking as though he was making a case in the courtroom - one of the man's more annoying habits.

"Lady and gentlemen, esteemed colleagues, our convening today is to discuss a matter of the utmost importance, one which will be vital to the continued survival of this prestigious institution."

So far, he'd said nothing of importance, but he still took the time to pause for dramatic effect before continuing.

"Two months ago, a man claiming to be named Ned Schneebly entered our school as a substitute teacher. Unfit for the position, he instead chose to corrupt the minds of the students under his charge with degenerate music, neglecting their proper studies and infecting their minds with poisonous thoughts of rebellion. We later discovered that he had lied about his identity, that he was not even a teacher, and, worst of all, that our weak-minded current principal has allowed him to remain!"

Hart gasped as she heard this. It was news to her. Two months meant nothing to the dead, who had a far looser comprehension of time than the living, and she had not even noticed the arrival of a new teacher. Even a fake one. God, this couldn't be happening. Hart had nothing against modern music, unlike Forrest - even jazz was still scandalous at the time of his death - but the idea of someone mistreating students, even without all of Forrest's embellishments, still terrified her. 

Forrest seemed thrilled by Hart's reaction, and he concluded, "In short... we must be rid of him!"

It took a second to process. 

"Wait..." Hart said, the gears still turning. "You want this man gone? As in, out of here, permanently... evicted?"

"That is precisely what we intend, dear girl. Precisely."

Part of her mind rankled at being called "dear girl", but Hart had other things to worry about. 

"But how on Earth are we going to do that? We're ghosts. None of the living can even see us."

"True indeed."

This time, it wasn't Forrest who spoke. It was the other man. One hand, sheathed in a black leather glove, was raised from the cane and pointed at her. He nodded his head, and a deep, strange light glinted in the eyes of Horace Green, founder of the school which bore his name. 

"And so, we will be requiring the services of a... professional."


	2. Beginning of Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we meet some rather important people.

The small classroom at the end of the hall, as far away from the main body of the school as possible, looked like a bomb had just gone off inside. Tables and chairs were piled in a corner, in a stack so precarious that it looked like a game of Jenga gone wrong; every chalkboard was covered in scrawled writing; and the floor was littered with piles of random papers, instrument cords held down by almost fifteen different kinds of tape, and frayed old rugs, to the point where even trying to walk across the room would be like crossing a minefield. Primitive fabric soundproofing covered the door and many of the high windows, leaving the room dimly lit, and posters had been placed all over the walls. The largest one was homemade, with a simple white background. Drawn on it with permanent marker was a black-and-white shield, and a red snake which curled itself into a letter S around a red R.

It was as though a hurricane had gone through a normal classroom and turned it upside down, but it had missed the massive shape of the teacher's desk at the front of the room. Not that the solid rectangular hunk of wood didn't look like it could survive any kind of storm, but it was so simple and oddly out of place against the chaos that it was almost the strangest thing about the room. 

Emphasis on _almost_ , because leaning up against that desk was a man by the name of Dewey Finn, and he was currently having a staring contest with the clock.

It had been going on for almost three minutes now, and while Dewey had admittedly blinked a couple of times, he had never broken eye contact with the steadily ticking clock. Each time that damn minute hand got close to twelve, Dewey would stand up a little taller (not that that really meant much, but hey, you can try), and a feeling of giddy anticipation would make his chest feel tight, but each time that hand would just move right on past, and he would have to keep waiting for another minute. 

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he muttered as the minute hand swung back around. His fingers absently played with the strings of his electric guitar as the excitement built. 

_Five, four, three, two..._

And just at that moment, the school bell rang, loud and shrill, and Dewey finally let himself blink - or, as it turned out, squeeze his eyes shut in pain.

The hallways outside started to fill with the sounds of conversation, stampeding feet, and doors being flung open, as kids rushed to get out of class and head home for the day. Some of them weren't going home yet, though, and before Dewey knew it, he was surrounded by familiar faces.

School was out, but the School of Rock sure as hell wasn't.

It had only been a couple of weeks since they had competed at the Battle of the Bands, but in that time, everything had changed. Especially for Dewey. Overnight, he had gone from being Mr. Schneebly, substitute teacher, to Mr. Finn, music coach. It was more than just a different name and title, though. Sure, he was still teaching basically the same stuff, rock and roll, but it wasn't in secret anymore. His students had gone back to actually learning what they were supposed to, which meant that for most of the day, he didn't get to see them at all. He was teaching other kids, older kids who didn't really give a shit, who were so locked in to the Ivy League-or-nothing mindset that Dewey could hardly get them to open up at all. He knew he'd get there eventually, but right now, god, it was exhausting. And all he really had to look forward to right now was the School of Rock's after-school band practice, so he was pulling out all the stops.

"Freddy, put your phone away! C'mon, you're makin' me sound like Summer!"

"That's not a bad thing, Mr. Finn. Zach Mooneyham?"

Summer looked at him with her usual mild disapproval, prim and perfect as ever, then looked back down at the clipboard she was holding. She was taking attendance. Of course she was. Dewey would certainly never have done it.

"Here!" Zach yelled, but as Dewey watched, the young guitarist went right back to staring into space. Something was bothering the kid, and Dewey would bet that it had something to do with Zach's dad. It always was. 

_Sucks bein' ignored, huh? 'Specially with a single parent._

The room started to fill with noise - instruments being tuned, singers warming up, and Summer desperately trying to finish taking attendance over it all, and Dewey took a second to take it all in. Despite everything, despite lying about his identity to get here, despite them losing the Battle of the Bands, despite Rosalie having had every opportunity to fire him or even have him arrested, he was here. Doing what he loved, even if he didn't initially deserve it. And Dewey didn't ever want to leave.

A sickly green light blazed out from the path of the thin chalk stylus, and Sandra Hart watched in uncomfortable fascination as Forrest Reed drew the outline of a door on the bare brick wall. In all her years of death, she had heard and read much about the Netherworld, realm of the dead, but had never been there. It seemed so distant, so abstract, but now, as Reed finished the line and the light grew even brighter, it finally felt real. 

Reed knocked, three times, and the door opened smoothly. The uneven bricks gave it a jagged edge, and the green light was now blindingly bright. As Hart stared, a shadow appeared in the depths of the light, grew closer and closer, and some... thing walked out. 

It was certainly not what Hart had been expecting a "bio-exorcist" to look like.

It - he? - might have resembled a human, if you were squinting. And legally drunk. He was wearing a black-and-white striped suit, tie and all, but that was somehow the most normal thing about his appearance. He looked somewhat like a bloated dead thing that one would find floating in a pond. The demon had skin so pale that it was almost gray, wide amber-yellow eyes, and unnaturally sharp teeth. His beard and his wild shock of hair were both vividly green, and more green stuff was oozing down from his forehead. As though all of that wasn't enough, he was also completely covered in dirt and grime, to the point where his fingernails were completely black.

This...

This was a professional?

_This_ was their bio-exorcist?

God, the world was growing stranger every day.

Reed stepped forward and held his hand out as though to shake hands, and for a long, silent moment, the demon didn't even move. Hart stared in awkward horror as the expressions on both men's faces grew increasingly confused, until she had difficulty not simply bursting out into laughter. Judging by the look on their visitor's face, no one had ever offered him a handshake before. It wouldn't surprise Hart if no one had ever willingly touched the bio-exorcist before.

After a minute which felt more like an eternity, Horace Green meekly cleared his throat and made a welcoming gesture. The demon's eyes followed the gesture, taking in the bare, dimly lit room, and then passing over Reed, MacNamara, and Hart - _all_ of Hart, in a manner which made her thoroughly uncomfortable - before his gaze settled back on the old man.

" **Lovely place you've got here. You do the decorating yourself?** "

The demon's voice sounded as though gravel had been stuffed down his throat, and Green shifted uncomfortably as he leaned back on his cane. Apparently being unable to find a response to the question, Green started to talk in a way that seemed rehearsed.

"T-thank you for agreeing to represent our interests, Mr. Beetlejuice. Your skill as a bio-exorcist comes highly touted, and we are in great need."

His name was Beetlejuice. Or Betelgeuse, as in the star? Oh God, why did it matter. You summon a literal demon from the Netherworld to get rid of a human for you, his name should be the least of your concerns.

Beetlejuice was staring at Green as though disappointed in him.

" **Not much for the flirting, huh? Or the foreplay. All right, let's skip to the action then; you've got some pesky little breathers gumming up the works, and you want me to go in there and flush 'em out for you. Ideally in a way that involves death, decapitation, disembowelment, or some of those other fun 'D' words. Right?** "

"More or less," Green stammered. "Suffice it to say that we have indeed had... issues with a certain living person on our grounds, who has disrupted..."

" **Yeah, I'll kill them all. No** **problem.** "

"NO!" Green thundered, and even Beetlejuice seemed taken aback by the sudden outburst. In an instant, the old man's body language had completely changed. Green's hands had a death grip on the head of his cane, and his entire body was tense and practically shaking with anger. Again, Hart got the sense that Green was stronger than he looked, and he clearly had been a rather powerful man in his youth. In mere moments, however, Green got his emotions back under control, and the facade was back in place. He spoke sternly but not loudly, but this time Beetlejuice seemed far less inclined to interrupt.

"We only want one person gone. His name is Dewey Finn, and he is to be your _only_ target. Do what you wish, but ensure that he is removed from school grounds and never returns. If any other living individual is made aware of your presence or our presence, your payment will be greatly reduced. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Beetlejuice? I would rather not repeat myself."

" **No, I got the message loud and clear.** "

Every last trace of irritation vanished from Green's face, replaced with a remarkably convincing look of joy.

"Excellent!"

" **Yeah, but about that payment...** "

"Yes, of course. It was rude of me to keep my method of payment private, but once you see it I believe you will understand why. I promise that you will find it to be of extraordinary value to one such as yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story that I've been planning out for a good while, and I certainly have no intentions of stopping short, but it is worth noting that I'm a rather slow writer and am also an essential field worker, so I can't guarantee any kind of schedule with my uploads. Just letting you know.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! I hope you like it, and I'm open to constructive criticism.
> 
> Felix


End file.
